Sontfs    and   Portraits 


Maxwell  Struthers  Burt 


UC-NRLF 


R     PUA     LPR 


ro 


m 


! 


-TO 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

John  O'May   and  Other 
Stories.      I2mo.      Illustrated 


SONGS  AND  PORTRAITS 


SONGS  AND  PORTRAITS 


BY 


MAXWELL  STRUTHERS  BURT 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1920 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  April,  1920 


TO 

THE    MEMORY    OF    MY    SISTER 

JEAN    BROOKE    BURT 
B.  AUG.  10,  18861   D.  JULY  4,  1918 


457623 


THE  dawns  will  cover  you  with  gold, 

The  night  with  a  starwebbed  lace, 

And  by  noon  the  mountain  winds  will  come 

To  bathe  with  youth  your  face, 

So  that  your  beauty  shall  not  fade 

From  your  hidden  resting  place. 

East  are  the  hills  you  loved  so  well, 

And  west  the  hills  again; 

And  the  gallant  heart  they  lifted  up 

Will  never  grow  old,  nor  be  slain, 

For  now  it  is  one  with  the  rustling  grass, 

And  the  leaves,  and  the  soft  gray  rain. 

Music  is  lost  and  vanishes 

When  the  last  sweet  echoes  rise; 

And  never  a  day  but  finds  an  end 

In  the  hush  of  twilight  skies; 

Only  the  dead  who  are  young  like  you, 

Know  a  grace  that  never  dies. 

O  Heart,  you  will  open  wide  your  arms 

fo  the  new  found  joy  of  these: 

You  will  hear  the  whispering  flame  of  the  flowers, 

You  will  laugh  at  the  hum  of  the  bees; 

And  the  birds  will  weave  with  songs  the  time 

You  talk  with  the  secret  trees. 


Contents 

I 

As  We  Go  On  3 

Resurgam  4 

The  Land  (Winter:  1916)  7 

The  Young  Dead  10 

Trumpets  ll 
If  Once  the  Great  Archangel  of  Our  Dreams         12 

II 

The  Little  House  J5 

Fishing  l6 

Crepuscle  19 

Dusk  (From  "Love  on  a  Ranch")  20 

Night  (From  "Love  on  a  Ranch")  21 

Spring  in  Princeton  22 

Two  Songs  for  Music  25 

The  Small  Song  26 

Marchen  27 

From  a  Tuscan  Song  3° 

Pierrot  at  War  (1915)  31 

All  Night  Through  32 

Non  Omnis  Moriar  33 

City  Trees  34 

Trinity  3^ 

The  House  37 

Drifting  38 
vii 


Question  39 

The  Bird  40 

The  Companion  41 

Princeton — 1917  42 

Words  43 

Friend  of  Mine  45 

Silver  Feet  (To  N.  B.;  set.  6)  46 

Night  is  the  Time  4.7 

Desert  Hours  48 

Lullaby  to  be  Sung  to  Mothers  49 

The  Pursuit  50 

Morning  53 

III 

The  Reformer  57 

To  a  Friend  Recently  Married  59 

K.  N.  B.  60 

Mr.  Latimer  61 

...  62 

And  Adah  Bare  Jabal  63 

The  Ouija  Player  65 

Uncle  Jim  66 

Mr.  Smithers  68 

Advice  to  a  Modern  Puritan  72 

J.  G.  H. :  President  74 
Primavera  (To  My  Daughter  upon  Reaching  Four)  75 

The  Good  Dean:  Humanist  (A.  F.  W.)  76 

Brown  Men  77 
viii 


As  We  Go  On 

As  we  go  on,  grow  older,  grow  more  wise, 
Grow  friendlier  with  every  friendly  thing, 
The  honourable  trees,  grave  dusk,  the  swing 
Of  upland  meadows  upward  to  the  skies, 
And  even  the  old  new  fraudulent  surprise 
Of  that  quaint  smiling  paradox  the  spring, 
How  greatly  beauty  once  again  can  bring 
In  smaller  ways  tears  to  our  tenderer  eyes. 

We  do  not  wait  on  mountains  or  on  seas, 

For  there's  a  little  lake  between  the  hills, 

That  rustles  with  the  sedges  and  the  bees; 

And  great  adventure  found  in  daffodils 

Stirs  April  gardens,  when  the  world  again 

Is  quick  with  mice  and  moles,  crickets  and  men. 


Resurgam      HJ/«W 

(I) 

Now  is  a  great  and  shining  company, 
Choired  like  stars  before  the  break  of  day, 
So  radiant,  their  silence  is  like  singing, 
Like  mist  of  music  down  the  Milky  Way; 
And  they  who  wake,  hearing  the  dawn  wind  bring 
ing 

Comfort  of  voices,  are  content  and  stay 
A  little  while  their  tears,  forbear  the  clinging 
Of  hands  that  hinder  youth  at  last  made  free. 

There  is  no  death,  nor  change,  nor  any  ending, 
Only  a  journey,  and  so  many  go, 
That  we  who  stay  at  length  discern  the  blending 
Of  the  two  roads,  two  breaths,  two  lives,  and  so 
Come  to  the  high  and  quiet  knowledge  that  the 

dead 
Are  but  ourselves  made  beautiful  instead. 

(ID 

And  you,  O  best  beloved  of  them  all, 

How  is  it  with  you?     Is  it  well  indeed? 

Or  is  there  in  the  vivid  quiet  need 

Of  some  familiar  task;    yet  does  the  call 

Of  the  warm  earth,  the  rise  and  fall 

Of  accents  you  held  dear,  when  in  the  night 

They  talk  of  you,  trouble  the  winged  light? 

O  foolish  question  wisdom  should  forestall ! 

Now  are  you  most  immediate:    so  near, 

That  there  is  left  no  thing  between  us;    no, 


Nor  veil  of  life.     Ah  dear,  my  very  dear, 
Only  the  dead  are  close  and  never  apart, 
Speaking  in  lucid  silences,  and  so, 
Can  find  their  way  unhampered  to  a  heart. 

(in) 

I  would  not  have  you  know  me  as  I  am, 
And  all  I  think,  or  did,  or  still  may  do, 
And  yet  can  it  be  otherwise,  you  being  you, 
And  dead,  and  knowing  all  things,  even  the  plan 
Of  this  sweet  sorrowful  mystery  we  call  life  ? 
How  must  it  seem,  the  beating  of  clipped  wings: 
My  blindness,  when  the  multitude  of  things 
Is  sharp  with  beauty  as  a  moonlit  knife? 

Ah  Love,  I  should  be  wonderfully  glad ! 
For  here  at  length  is  what  all  men  desire, 
And  though  I  seem  a  beggar  am  I  clad 
In  the  clear  flames  of  an  unceasing  fire: 
Surely  there  is  no  gift  in  death  unless 
It  brings  all  knowledge  and  all  tenderness. 

(IV) 

They  told  me  this  was  all  when  we  should  die; 
A  sudden  end,  a  silence,  and  a  going; 
And  even  farewell  only  a  fluttering  sigh, 
And  then  a  secret,  far  beyond  our  knowing. 
Could  this  be  so,  you,  who  were  a  bestowing 
Of  song  and  light  and  laughter?     Were  it  true, 
What  of  the  subtle  difference  that  was  you: 
The  exquisite  mould,   under  the  craftsman   grow 
ing? 


They  have  not  heard.     For  on  that  very  day 

There  came  a  shining  presence  where  I  wept, 

As  if  a  radiant  child  had  turned  away 

From  some  dear,  rapt  engagement  long  unkept: 

And  see,  I  have  a  sign,  for  I  made  trial, 

And  you  looked  back,  and  paused,  a  little  while. 

(V) 

There  is  a  wind  that  blows  from  earth  when  dusk 

is  coming, 

Laden  with  richness  of  the  stored  up  day; 
The  secret  warmth  of  hidden  paths;   the  humming 
Of  pollened  bees;    the  sweetness  of  damp  hay; 
And  mist  along  a  shining  valley  stream; 
And  green  cool  reaches  where  the  bending  trees, 
After  the  hot  noon,  listen  for  the  breeze: 
All  this,  I  know,  is  part  of  your  new  dream. 
And  when  I  wake,  and  death  seems  most  unfair, 
Even  then  is  some  new  mystery  on  the  air, 
Of  scent,  or  sound,  or  loveliness  of  hue, 
Stirring  my  heart  and  making  me  aware 
I  cannot  grasp  the  rapture  now  of  you, 
Who  were  so  close  to  dawn,  and  trees,  and  dew. 


The  Land 

(Winter  :   1916) 


I  THINK  it  is  not  hard  to  love  with  ease 

A  little  land,  for  there  a  man  may  go 

From  southern  dawn  to  northern  eve,  and  so, 

Compass,  within  a  day-time  heart,  the  seas 

White  on  a  sun  drenched  cliff,  and  after  these, 

A  river  shining,  and  a  purple  hill, 

And  lights  that  star  the  dusk,  where  valleys  fill 

An  evening  with  the  tenderness  of  trees. 

But  only  a  great  lover  loves  the  great 
Scarred  beauty  of  a  lonely  land,  and  seeks 
Ever  to  keep  renewed  an  hundred  dreams, 
Of  plains  that  brood  by  wide  unwearying  streams 
Of  how  archangels  hold  red  sunset  peaks, 
Winged  with  a  flaming  splendour  desolate. 


And  I  have  known  a  man,  who  back  from  wan 

dering, 

Come  when  September  rippled  in  the  grain, 
Fall  straight  upon  his  knees  to  find  the  pondering 
Grave  twilight  of  his  country  once  again; 
And  taste  the  earth;    and  watch  the  sentinel  corn 
March,  as  an  army  marches  from  the  sight, 
To  where,  below,  the  valley  mist  was  torn, 
Showing  a  river  pendant  in  the  night: 
And  black  encircling  hills  that  held  the  damp 
Sweet  frost  of  autumn  moonlight  on  their  rim.  .  .  . 
7 


.  .  .    Until  his  heart  was  like  a  swaying  lamp: 
Until  the  memory  came  again  on  him, 
Of  brook,  and  field;    of  secret  wood;    the  yearning 
Smell  of  dead  leaves:    an  upland  road  returning. 

an) 

Be  not  afraid,  O  Dead,  be  not  afraid: 
We  have  not  lost  the  dreams  that  once  were  flung 
Like  pennons  to  the  world:    we  yet  are  stung 
With  all  the  starry  prophecies  that  made 
You,  in  the  gray  dawn  watchful,  half  afraid 
Of  visions.     Never  a  night  that  all  men  sleep  un 
stirred  : 

Never  a  sunset  but  the  west  is  blurred 
With  banners  marching  and  a  sign  displayed. 
Be  not  afraid,  O  Dead,  lest  we  forget 
A  single  hour  your  living  glorified; 
Come  but  a  drum-beat,  and  the  sleepers  fret 
To  walk  again  the  places  where  you  died: 
Broad  is  the  land,  our  loves  are  broadly  spread, 
But  now,  even  more  widely  scattered  lie  our  dead. 

(IV) 

O  Lord  of  splendid  nations  let  us  dream 
Not  of  a  place  of  barter,  nor  'the  State', 
But  dream  as  lovers  dream — for  it  is  late — 
Of  some  small  place  beloved;    perhaps  a  stream 
Running  beside  a  house  set  round  with  flowers; 
Perhaps  a  garden  wet  with  hurrying  showers, 
Where  bees  are  thick  about  a  leaf  hid  gate. 
For  such  as  these,  men  die  nor  hesitate. 


8 


The  old  gray  cities,  gossippy  and  wise, 

The  candid  valleys,  like  a  woman's  brow, 

The  mountains  treading  mightily  toward  the  skies, 

Turn  dreams  to  visions — there's  a  vision  now ! 

Of  hills  panoplied,  fields  of  waving  spears, 

And  a  great  campus  shaken  with  flags  and  tears. 


The  Young  Dead 

THESE  who  were  born  so  beautifully 

Of  straight  limbed  men  and  candid  white  browed 

wives, 

Now  have  walked  out  beyond  where  we  can  see, 
Are  full  grown  men  with  spent  and  splendid  lives: 
And  these  who  only  a  little  while  ago, 
Without  our  help,  would  stumble  in  steep  places, 
Need  never  our  hands,  stride  proudly  on,  and  so, 
Come  to  a  dawn  of  great  unknown  spaces. 

O  lithe  young  limbs  and  radiant  grave  young  eyes, 
Now  have  you  taught  us  beauty  cannot  fade: 
The  years  will  find  a  rounding  of  the  skies, 
And  all  our  summer  nights  be  overlaid 
With  strength,  a  calm,  a  loveliness,  a  lending 
Of  grace  that  will  not  go,  that  has  no  ending. 


10 


Trumpets 

AND  they  had  planned  a  future  filled  with  bright 
Upstanding  days  that  held  the  warming  sun 
Even  where  shadows  are:    when  these  were  done, 
Sleep,  with  a  heart  made  curiously  light. 
They  dreamed  so  much,  as  all  men  dream,  at  night; 
Of  tasks,  and  the  fine  heat  of  them,  the  cool 
That  comes  by  dusk  like  colour  on  a  pool: 
Now  this  is  over  and  new  things  begun. 

Now  this  is  over,  and  their  dreams,  once  caught 
Up  in  a  great  cloud,  terrible  and  unsought, 
And  every  hour,  so  straightly  marked  before, 
Blown  and  broken  by  the  wind  of  war, 
Have  left  them  dead,  with  never  a  time  for  reap 
ing: 
The  trumpets  cared  so  little  for  their  sleeping. 


ii 


If  Once  the  Great  Archangel 
of  Our  Dreams 

IF  once  the  great  archangel  of  our  dreams 
Would  leave  his  high  estate  and  for  a  span 
Grow  close  to  us  through  some  concordant  plan, 
Walking  at  midday  near  the  country  streams, 
Or  by  the  hearth,  discuss  our  common  themes, 
I  think  that  he  would  prove  an  artizan 
Of  souls,  and  a  most  comfortable  man; 
Smaller  and  larger  than  as  now  he  seems. 

And  though  his  talk  would  still  have  much  to  do 
With  that  strange  rose  we  seek  within  the  fire, 
Petalled  with  flames  of  unfulfilled  desire, 
It  would  have  quiet  laughter  in  it  too; 
Laughter  with  children,  and  old  folks,  and  dogs; 
And  good  men;    and  with  poor  unwitting  rogues. 


12 


II 


The  Little  House 

AND  I  said  to  myself  I  will  build  a  house, 

The  day  my  love  comes  by, 

And  there  shall  be  much  of  a  river  wind,  and  much 

of  the  open  sky; 
With  a  singing  bird  to  wake  us,  and  a  great  rose, 

red  and  high. 

A  great  rose  red  and  high  and  near, 

And  shaken  by  the  bees, 

Close  in  the  shadow  of  green-gold  vines  and  a  depth 

of  green-gold  trees: 
And   night  will  bring   a  cool  of  dreams   like  rain 

upon  the  breeze. 

O  little  house  of  river  winds: 

O  house  so  hid  and  neat: 

The  long  white  road  that  leads  to  you  is  cruel  to 

weary  feet; 
Yet,  with  my  Love  for  company,  even  the  dust 

is  sweet. 


Fishing 

THE  days  when  I  went  fishing 

I  would  wake  before  the  dawn, 

The  moon  a  little  lip  of  gold 

Above  a  silver  lawn, 

Where,  in  a  velvet  pool  of  trees, 

A  gray  mist  hung  unstirred  by  breeze, 

Or  any  sound,  so  patiently 

The  world  bore  night,  it  seemed  to  me. 

The  house  was  silent  to  my  feet, 

Beneath  a  tip-toe  tread; 

And  I  could  see  behind  each  door, 

Calm  in  a  white-paned  bed, 

An  aunt,  with  high  patrician  nose, 

An  uncle  carmined;    there  arose 

A  smell  of  matting  on  the  air, 

Sober  and  cooling  everywhere. 

Beside  the  kitchen  stove  the  cat 
Blinked  twice  with  eyes  of  gold, 
And  yawned  with  infinite  contempt, 
For  sleep  is  new,  and  old 
Is  fishing;    on  the  Nile, 
Once  with  mysterious  feline  guile, 
In  moonlit,  temple-shadowed  bays, 
Were  caught  bright  fins,  in  other  days. 

The  cat,  the  stove,  the  open  door, 

Upon  a  miracle  of  sun ! 

O  for  the  dew  upon  the  grass: 

16 


0  for  the  feet  that  dance  and  run ! 
And  in  the  maples*  tip-top  spires 

The  swaying  song  of  passionate  choirs ! 

1  think  that  morning's  finest  joys 
Are  saved  for  little  fishing  boys. 

Where  trout  lie  there  are  white,  white  stones, 

With  running  water  over; 

And  half  the  air  is  made  of  mint, 

And  half  is  made  of  clover; 

And  slow  clouds  come  and  go  and  sail 

Like  giant  fish  with  lazy  tail. 

A  stream  runs  out  a  fine  spun  song 
From  shadowy  pools  to  laughter; 
A  wood  song,  with  a  chorus  clear, 
And  a  lilt  and  a  chuckle  after; 
For  little  pools  with  sunlight  in 
Are  like  plucked  notes  of  a  violin, 
While  through  the  mist  of  melodies 
Stirs  ever  the  motif  of  the  breeze: 

Some  find  bird  carolling  sweet  at  dawn, 
And  some  more  sweet  at  noon; 
But  fishing  boys  like  dusk,  I  think, 
For  there's  a  hush  that  soon, 
When  evening  sends  them  homeward  bound, 
Turns  every  field  to  tremulous  sound, 
Where  thrush  and  owl  and  meadow-lark 
Chant  to  the  coming  of  the  dark. 


The  nights  when  I'd  been  fishing 

Were  always  very  still, 

Save  for  a  rustling  of  the  leaves; 

A  distant  whippoorwill; 

And  in  a  sky  of  velvet-blue, 

The  stars  were  golden  fishes  too; 

Swam  slowly,  swam  into  a  dream 

Of  white  stones  and  a  running  stream, 


18 


Crepuscle 

IN  all  the  lonely  places  and  the  hills 

By  dusk  comes  down  faint  trumpeting;    it  fills 

The  hollows  and  the  river  banks  with  sound, 

And  music  is  like  mist  along  the  ground. 

In  all  the  forest  paths  and  secret  places 

The  lilies  seem  like  small  forgotten  faces, 

And  clothed  in  dimming  gold,  and  by  our  side, 

With  muted  hoofs,  the  dead  contented  ride. 


Dusk 

(From  "Love  on  a  Ranch") 

THE  tall  pines  are  a  myriad  host  at  prayer; 

A  half-moon  swings  a  censer  on  the  air; 

Silver  and  far  away 

The  hills  turn  gray. 

And    while    the    transparent    moment    rounds    and 

breaks 
There  is  no  music  but  the  antiphonal  wind  of  lakes. 

Love,  wait !     Be  still !     Hush  even  our  hearts, 

Lest  they,  loud  with  this  beauty, 

Beat  against  some  calm 

Beyond  our  understanding,  and  we  be 

Bereft  of  this  most  requisite  memory. 

Under  the  ceaseless  murmur  of  the  days 

Lies  silence. 


20 


Night 

(From  "Love  on  a  Ranch") 

HUSH  of  the  world,  save  for  a  small  and  quiet  wind, 
Out  of  the  north,  through  slumberous  fir  tops  stir 
ring: 

A  late  pale  moon  conjuring  the  dreaming  hills 
With  passionate  white  magic,  and  the  whirring 
Of  a  belated  cricket  in  the  grass. 

0  amber  night,  alive,  and  wonderful,  and  still ! 

1  have  arisen  for  I  cannot  sleep: 

Too  sweet,  too  near  the  outspread  shadow  of  your 
hair! 

Is  it  not  strange,  this  love  which  holds  us 
Lips  cling  to  lips,  so  much 

I  strive  to  lose  myself  in  you,  and  yet,  beyond, 
Always  we  stand  as  beggars  at  the  gates  of  sound 
and  touch. 


21 


Spring  in  Princeton 

SWEET,  very  sweet,  the  meadows  now, 

New  blackened  by  the  turning  plough, 

And  soon  across  the  Jersey  hills 

Will  drip  the  gold  of  daffodils, 

Until  the  furrows  in  the  train 

Of  drifting  winds  drift  deep  with  grain. 

Apple  and  judas  tree  and  pear 

Breaking  in  blossom  everywhere; 

And  in  the  night — O  nights  soft  falling ! 

To  hear  the  little  '  peepers'  calling ! 

I  wonder  if,  as  used  to  be, 

The  dusk  is  damp  with  mystery, 

And  shadowy  black,  where  trees,  inlacing, 

Make  patterns  for  a  round  moon's  tracing; 

And  if,  down  every  silent  lane, 

Lovers  walk  hand  in  hand  again? 

...     O  to  awake  on  such  a  day 

And  open  windows  wide  to  May: 

To  watch  the  hesitant  red  dawn 

Stealing  across  the  close-turfed  lawn; 

Each  lilac  bush,  to  purple  springing, 

A  very  rain — a  pain,  of  singing; 

While  here  and  there,  with  merry  tapping, 

A  flicker  stirs  the  laggard  napping! 

To  breakfast  underneath  the  trees 

With  silver  and  white  naperies 

On  honey,  tasting  yet  of  clover, 

In  a  warm  field,  a  blue  sky  over: 

And  read,  nor  care  a  pinch  of  snuff, 

What  the  world  does — sad  world  enough ! 

22 


While,  just  to  make  full  life  completer, 

Your  cigarette  burns  sweet  and  sweeter! 

O  little  town  in  spring  I  find 

You  altogether  to  my  mind: 

Your  towers  silvery  gray  and  high, 

Against  the  background  of  a  sky, 

Where  white  clouds  drift  as  lazily 

As  galleons  on  a  summer  sea: 

Your  old  bells  ringing,  old  clocks  chiming, 

Dawn  and  dusk  and  high  noon  timing; 

And,  underneath  your  elm  trees  stately, 

The  brisk  don,  walking  now  sedately ! 

Time  is  unwasteable  in  May 

There  is  no  night,  there  is  no  day, 

One  can  dream  honestly  the  hours, 

Over  old  books,  over  new  flowers, 

Scenting  an  ancient  tome  of  leather 

With  shrubs  and  grass  and  sunny  weather, 

Until  John  Lyly  struts  once  more, 

And  Gil  Bias  laughs  from  a  tavern  door, 

And  Borrow  foots  it  through  his  Spain 

With  bibles  and  with  lies  again: 

Although,  in  truth,  a  hocus-pocus, 

With  print  mixed  up  with  thoughts  of  crocus, 

Tulip,  hyacinth,  red  japonica, 

Where  Wells  is  marrying  Ann  Veronica, 

And,  sentimental,  swings  his  feet 

For  nothing  save  that  life  is  sweet.  .  .  . 

.  .  .     And  life  is  sweet,  no  matter  where; 
Even  the  big  gray  towns  are  fair, 
And  daisies  white  and  buttercup 
23 


Creep  to  their  very  gates,  and  up 

Each  narrow  street  the  children  sing 

To  hurdy-gurdys,  in  the  spring. 

Dusk  is  brimful  and  soft  with  speech 

That  Parma,  Umbria,  Sicily  teach; 

And  Vevey,  and  Lucerne;    and  merry, 

Rich,  and  quaint  is  the  tongue  of  Kerry. 

I  think  there's  nothing  like  at  dark 

To  see  the  lamps  in  Central  Park 

Turn  yellow  in  the  purple  gloom 

To  huge  gold  lilies  dripping  bloom; 

And  watch  the  great  walls  through  the  night 

Ripple  to  towers  of  fabulous  light. 

.  .  .     But  ah  the  best,  the  very  best, 

My  little  town  twice  score  miles  west ! 

There,  as  the  sun  folds  down  its  wings, 

On  every  lawn  a  robin  sings, 

And  kindly  people  take  their  tea 

Under  an  elm  or  maple  tree; 

While  dogs,  politely  consequent, 

Vaguely  consider  each  new  scent. 

And  ah,  the  lilac  trees  are  rare ! 

And  ah,  the  green-gold  evening  there! 

O  quiet  lawns  !     O  friendly  town  ! 

O  the  soft  drift  of  petals  down ! 


24 


Two  Songs  for  Music 

(I) 

NEVER  a  day  turns  blue;    never  a  day's  begun 

But  I  feel  you  near, 

And  somewhere  here, 

As  one  feels  in  May  the  sun, 

Knows  in  June  the  passing  cloud, 

And  with  Fall  that  the  year  is  done. 

Never  a  dusk  grows  cool,  and  the  night  is  come 

again, 

But  your  whispering  feet 
Are  like  the  beat 
On  the  roof  of  the  falling  rain; 
Until  there  is  no  roof  at  all, 
And  my  heart  is  washed  with-  pain. 

(ID 

I  walk  all  day  beneath  the  burning  sun, 
And  all  day  long  my  shadow  follows  me: 
There  is  a  street  where  falls  a  chequered  shade, 
And  here,  for  once,  my  shadow  lets  me  be, 
Beside  a  wall,  with  coolness  dark  and  steep: 
And  so,  at  noon,  I  rest  awhile  and  sleep. 
But  in  the  white  unsmiling  hours  that  speed 
Towards  dusk,  I  run  again  but  am  not  freed. 
By  night  there  is  no  shadow.  .  .  .     Never  I  knew, 
Until  the  haunted  night,  that  it  was  you. 


The  Small  Song 

SOMEWHERE  far  off  a  woman's  voice  is  singing; 
A  little  song  .  .  .  tender  .  .  .   and  clinging ! 

O  small  song  you  sang  to  me, 
A  score  of  score  of  days  ago; 

0  small  song  whose  melody 

Walks  in  my  heart  and  stumbles  so: 

1  cannot  bear  the  level  nights, 
And  all  the  moons  are  over  long, 
And  all  the  hours  from  sun  to  sun 
Turn  to  a  little  song. 

O  small  song,  O  song ! 
Why  is  a  voice  full  of  tears? 
Why  is  a  woman's  throat  a  bird, 
White  in  the  thicket  of  the  years? 


26 


Marchen 

THE  wind  is  a  finger  on  the  pane; 

The  firs  a  cloak  across  the  snows; 

The  moon  a  lantern  down  the  lane 

Where  an  old  witch-woman  goes: 

But  here  the  fire-lights  dance  and  lie, 

And  up  from  the  hearth  the  great  sparks  fly; 

While  the  cat  hums  sleepily. 

.  .  .     Gather  you  close  and  round  your  ear 

To  nurse's  voice  old  and  slow, 

While  nurse's  nose  makes  a  shadow  queer 

On  the  wall  where  the  fire-flames  glow: 

Stretched  at  their  ease  the  two  dogs  snore 

From  the  big  brown  bearskin  on  the  floor: 

And  our  hair  stirs  creepily. 

.  .  .     Hist:    hark!     A  crackling  spark!  .  .  . 

The  cat  hums  sleepily. 

On  winter  nights,  they  say,  they  say, 

When  everyone  is  fast  asleep, 

The  forest  dances  a  rare  gambade 

To  a  tune  the  small  stars  keep; 

And  all  the  pine  trees  unafraid 

Sway  in  a  limb-locked  black  charade 

Adown  the  hillside  steep,  so  steep, 

The  shadowy  hillside  steep. 

O  then,  if  one  has  eyes  to  see, 

There  follows  the  quaintest  mystery; 

But  should  one  tell — why  then — why,  well, 

They'd  turn  one  into  a  fairy  bell, 

27 


Or  the  bole  of  an  old  oak  tree — an  hideous  old  oak 

tree. 
Hist !     Hark !  .  .  .     Just  a  spark !  .  .  . 

A  little  man  with  cap  of  red, 

And  horn-brown  lamp  of  glow-worm  light, 

An  elfin  porter,  I've  heard  said, 

Comes  out  and  peers  around  the  night; 

And  then,  as  sudden  as  raindrops,  quite, 

The  forest  rustles  overhead: 

Rustles,  and  shivers,  and  laughs,  and  is  still: 

And  out  from  thicket,  and  out  from  hill, 

With  an  echo  of  horse  and  a  tinkle  of  horn, 

And  glittering  spears  of  a  half  inch  thorn, 

Rides  a  fairy  hunt,  as  sure  as  you're  born. 

There's  a  'Morte  Halloa!'  and  a  'Harke  Away!', 

And  the  night  is  filled  with  the  tumult  gay; 

But  save  you're  possessed  of  the  keenest  of  ears, 

You'd  think  it  the  crinkle  of  ice,  my  dears: 

Way  in  the  front  is  a  tiny  shape — 

Breath  o'  my  body! — A  fairy  ape? 

No,  it's  a  spider ! — No,  it's  a  bear ! 

As  small  as  the  round  black  seed  of  a  pear ! 

And  oh,  how  it  roars  as  it  bustles  and  bounds 

From  the  very  jaws  of  the  fairy  hounds. 

Down  the  valley,  and  everywhere, 

Up  the  hill-side  far  and  near, 

With  a  silver  call  and  a  faint  fanfare, 

And   a  'Ride  him  down!'   and   a   'Lend  me  your 

spear!'; 

Till,  suddenly,  thrice,  and  loud,  and  clear, 
A  cock  crows  into  the  frosty  air, 
28 


And  the  little  man  with  cap  of  red 
Waves  his  lantern  above  his  head. 

So  .  .  .  !     One  by  one  the  stars  turn  white, 

So  ...    !     Cloaked    and    sandalled,    through    the 

night, 

Before  you  know  it,  in  cowl  of  gray, 
Strides  the  bearded  palmer,  day. 
The  forest  is  still,  but  the  old  black  oak 
Stir  in  their  sleep  and  chuckle  and  choke. 
.  .  .     Hist:    hark!     What  was  that? 
Hu-ush!    Hu-ush!    Only  the  cat. 


29 


From  a  Tuscan  Song 

IF  I  were  dead  a  little  and  could  hear, 

In  the  dawn  hour,  the  cock  crow  clear 

Above  the  damp  and  quiet  smell  of  field  and  yard, 

Dear  Heart,  this  dying  were  not  then  so  very  hard. 

If  I  were  dead  a  little,  and  the  night 
Would  show  me,  in  the  empty  stars,  your  light 
Glimmering  below  from  under  sheltering  blinds, 
Even  the  winds  would  warm  me — even  the  winds. 

Sweet  is  the  good  black  earth;    the  hours 
Spread  in  my  heart  like  open  August  flowers: 
To  die  a  long,  long  way  were  lonely,  lonely: 
Could  I  not  die  a  little  way  only? 


Pierrot  at  War 

(1915) 

A  YEAR  ago  in  Carnival 

We  danced  till  break  of  day; 

A  year  ago  in  Carnival 

The  boulevards  were  gay, 

And  roses  shook  the  whispering  air 

With  a  great  sibilant  soft  fanfare. 

In  Carnival,  in  Carnival, 

A  Prince  of  Magic  comes, 

To  the  sound  of  fifes,  and  the  sound  of  horns, 

And  the  sound  of  little  drums. 

A  year  ago  in  Carnival 

The  lamps  along  the  quays 

Lay  sweeter  on  the  misty  night 

Than  stars  in  leafy  trees; 

And  down  the  ribboned,  sparkling  street, 

Pierrot  ran  on  twinkling  feet. 

Ah  year,  there  is  no  Carnival! 

The  north  burns  dusky  red, 

And  on  the  white  of  Pierrot's  brow 

Is  a  long  scar  instead; 

While  ever  the  muttering  runs 

From  the  bleeding  lips  of  the  guns.  .  .  . 

This  year,  this  year  at  Carnival 
A  Prince  of  Magic  comes, 
With  blood-red  crest  against  the  sky 
And  a  snarl  of  angry  drums. 


All  Night  Through 

QUICK  as  the  tread  of  summer  rain 

Is  the  stir  and  whisper  of  the  grain: 

All  night  through 

The  road  is  sweet 

And  rhythmic  with  the  murmurous  wheat: 

All  night  through,  as  wind,  my  heart 

Seems  of  summer  winds  a  part; 

And  my  lips  are  cool  with  dew, 

Cool  as  the  evening  lips  of  you. 

Straight  ahead  the  dark  trees  bend, 

And  over  the  hill,  where  they  make  an  end, 

All  night  through, 

A  guinea  moon 

Swings  in  a  measured  rigadoon: 

Drifting  cloud  and  swaying  leaf, 

And,  subtly  sweet  in  the  hedge's  sheaf, 

The  dancing  note  of  a  cricket,  too, 

Like  the  little  dancing  laugh  of  you. 

All  night  through, 

Till  dawn  is  come, 

With  a  ruffle  of  song  like  a  ruffling  drum 

— The  sky  is  blue — 

And  over  the  down, 

To  a  dancing  cove  and  a  spired  town, 

And  a  long  ship  putting  out  to  sea, 

My  dancing  feet  are  taking  me. 

And  now  that  it's  day,  with  a  job  to  do, 

Do  you  think  I'll  forget,  or  remember  you? 

32 


Non  Omnis  Moriar 

THIS  we  can  say,  when  all  is  said  and  done, 
We  have  seen  great  days,  you  and  I  together, 
Days  when  the  loosed  winds  danced  before  the  sun, 
And  the  gray  plains  shook  with  galloping  weather. 

This  we  can  say  when  weariness  is  ours, 
Cooler  than  rain  when  the  noons  are  sere  with  heat, 
Dusk  has  crept  up  to  us  and  night  changed  to  stars, 
And  the  dim  hours  sped  on  dew-clad  feet. 

Sped,  till  the  wind  blew  dawn  again,  and  we 
Turned  to  the  hills  that  brought  us  near  the  sky: 
Love,  with  the  days  that  have  passed  beyond  decree, 
Much  that  is  part  of  us  can  never  wholly  die. 


33 


City  Trees 

I  MIND  me  well  an  elm  that  grew 

Here  at  the  corner;    and  a  square  above 

A  slender  maple  kindly  threw 

Its  shade  for  goodly  men  long  dead: 

On  April  mornings  in  the  spread 

Of  branch  and  leaf  and  delicate  spire, 

Sparrows  gave  greeting  to  their  kind, 

Or  joined  in  shrill  cacophonous  choir: 

And  when  the  sky  was  very  blue, 

The  soft  green  stir  that  one  looked  through, 

Was  suddenly  a  gracious  thing 

To  country  eyes  and  country  hearts 

Weary  of  waiting  for  the  spring. 

The  early  summer  nights  of  rain, 

When  clouded  moons  came  back  again, 

Found  all  the  new  washed  silent  street 

Bosky  with  scent  of  dripping  boughs, 

Distilled  and  overpoweringly  sweet; 

And  perfume  hung  upon  the  pave 

From  either  side,  for  gardens  gave, 

High  walled  with  brick,  of  secret  mien, 

Upon  the  uneven,  echoing  flag, 

A  shadowy  crown  of  fragrant  green. 

Here  were  set  apple  tree  and  pear, 

And  quince,  and  heavy  on  the  air, 

Magnolias  raised  their  wax-wraith  cup, 

Drinking  the  falling  star-light  up. 

Year  after  year,  and  yet  below, 

Youth  changed  to  age,  and  age  to  slow 

Inevitable  hearse  and  crawling  carriages — 

34 


Birth,  burial,  sorrow,  laughter,  marriages — 
Till  now,  indeed — I  wondered  then — 
If  trees  grow  weary  of  much  men; 
Weary  of  old  recurrent  change, 
And  long  as  men  do  for  a  wind 
Over  a  high  white  mountain  range; 
Or,  country  bred,  they  miss  the  hush 
Of  morning  meadows,  cool  and  lush, 
Where,  in  the  place  of  ragged  sparrows, 
The  singing  birds,  lark,  robin,  vireo, 
Drop  their  melodic  silver  arrows 
Straight  to  the  heart  of  quivering  boughs; 
Or  perhaps  the  quiet  munching  cows 
On  summer  nights,  the  little  sounds, 
Snuffling  and  breathing,  pressing  close, 
The  white  sheep  make  upon  their  rounds: 
And  if  drab  women  decked  to  please 
Are  not  sad  sights  for  good  green  trees. 


35 


Trinity 

THERE  were  three  things  I  loved  to  see 
When  evening  walked  along  with  me; 
The  crowded  street,  and  the  leafy  Square, 
And  the  high  tower  of  Trinity. 

The  drab  sprawled  city  seemed  to  soar 
A  breathless  moment  toward  the  sky: 
And  ever  since,  when  dusk  is  by, 
The  crowded  street  comes  back  to  me 
And  the  rose-gray  of  Trinity. 

A  single  shaft  above  the  Square, 
And  here  and  there  and  everywhere, 
The  soft  scent  of  April  rain 
And  little  pools  of  wet  aflare. 


The  House 

HERE  in  this  house  my  father  lived, 
Here  on  the  corner  facing  west, 
The  tall  white  stoop  knew  much  of  him 
And  led  to  all  that  loved  him  best. 

Once  was  a  garden  by  the  side, 
Where  we  would  sit  in  sunny  May, 
To  hear  him  tell  of  wondrous  things 
In  his  gay,  quiet,  humorous  way. 

And  I  recall  his  brown  bright  beard, 
The  slow  and  graceful  strength  of  him, 
The  heavy  lidded  eyes  of  gray; 
Yes,  even  those  are  not  yet  dim. 

Nor  dim  the  breathless  night  I  crept 
Into  the  shadowy  room  apart, 
And  found  a  shadow  lying  there 
That  stopped  the  beating  of  my  heart. 

I  cannot  pass  the  corner  now, 
So  full  it  is  of  memory; 
And  of  the  garden  where  we  sat, 
Smug  jewel  shops  make  mockery: 

And  I  must  wonder  if,  at  night, 
Between  the  trinkets  cold  as  death, 
The  shadow  of  a  little  boy 
Still  weeps  with  stricken  breath. 


37 


Drifting 

SUN-DRIFT,  cloud-drift,  drifting  fall  of  light, 
Drifting  into  Metatsee  with  the  scent  of  night 
Sweet  upon  a  hundred  hills; 
Fragrant  where  the  valley  fills 
With   a  whirr  of  wild  wings  lake-ward   bound   in 
flight. 

Star-drift,  moon-drift,  drifting  pony  feet, 
Through   the  white   plaza,   where  the   four   roads 

meet; 

In  the  purple  dusk  about, 
Yellow  lights  come  slowly  out, 
Drift  in  little  pools  of  gold  across  a  silver  street. 

Sage-drift,  dew-drift,  drifting  scent  of  flowers, 
Drifting  out  of  Metatsee  in  the  morning  hours; 
All  the  world  ahead  of  you, 
Cool  with  birds  and  meadow-dew, 
Straight   to   where   along   the  west   a  white  peak 
towers. 


Question 

WHEN  it  is  warm  I  know  the  quiet  flowers 
Content  you  through  the  dreaming  summer  hours; 
But  when  it  rains,  it  rains,  my  dear,  instead, 
How  can  I  bear  to  know  that  you  are  dead  ? 


39 


The  Bird 

THERE  is  a  bird  that  sings  at  night, 

A  soft  note,  a  sudden  note, 

As  if,  with  half  awakened  throat, 

It  could  not  keep  its  sweetness  in.  ... 

I  think  sometimes  the  bird  is  you. 

There  was  a  time  you  sang  at  night: 

0  little  songs  that  talked  of  spring ! 
But  now  so  much  I  hear  you  sing, 

1  think  sometimes  the  bird  is  you. 

I  think  no  melody  is  lost, 

Nor  loveliness  for  very  long, 

For  in  the  place  where  beauty  walked, 

A  budding  tree  is  like  a  song, 

And  when  a  heart  is  touched  with  flowers, 

Is  there  not  music  through  the  hours  ? 

Is  there  not  music  where  you  went, 
And  singing  down  each  mountain  trail, 
And  echoes  that  are  never  spent, 
And  silver  words  that  never  fail? 


40 


The  Companion 

Now  am  I  nevermore  afraid; 

I  have  cast  out  fear; 

Since  you,  who  were  part  of  me,  are  dead, 

And  therefore  near: 

Since  you,  who  are  part  of  me,  are  wise 

Beyond  all  hope  and  pain, 

I  shall  walk  with  my  face  to  the  stars, 

And  look  up  at  them  again. 

There  are  nights  when  I  ride  alone: 

In  the  unstirred  dew, 

There  will  be  feet  that  leave  no  mark, 

And  yet  are  you; 

And  I  shall  be  glad  for  their  sound, 

I  shall  have  no  choice, 

For  the  winds  will  be  you  accompanying  me, 

And  the  silence  use  your  voice. 


Princeton— 1917 

LIKE  to  a  mother  who  watches  for  her  sons, 
Sons  whose  voices  may  never  come  again, 
Hour  on  hour  on  hour  that  laggard  runs, 
You  watch  these  grave  gray  winter  nights  of  rain. 

O  Beautiful 

We  who  have  loved  you  when  the  spring  is  lit, 
And  breaks  in  flame  along  the  western  hills; 
When  every  hollow  place  and  damp  sweet  bit 
Of  woodland  red  arbutus  spills, 
And  in  the  valley  all  the  apple  trees 
Tremble  in  loveliness  before  the  breeze; 
O  Beautiful,  your  beauty  was  of  light, 
Now  more  than   beautiful,   since  it  is   dark   and 
night. 

Stern  as  a  mother  whose  sons  are  outward  borne, 
On  some  far  quest  that  ends  beside  the  grail, 
You  will  remember  them,  lost  and  battle-torn, 
Recalling  their  voices,  their  steps;    nor  ever  fail. 

0  Beautiful 

1  think  on  April  nights, 

On  April  nights  when  all  the  world  is  green, 
And  soft  with  open  windows  and  with  lights, 
They  will  come  back  where  now  their  dreams  have 

been, 

Walking  again  the  paths  they  knew  so  well — 
And,  as  the  hours  grow  quieter  and  long, 
Shake  out  their  hearts  once  more  in  silent  song. 
42 


Words 

SOME  day  when  I  am  well  content, 
When  I  have  paid  the  uttermost  rent, 
Paid  the  butcher,  paid  the  cook, 
I'll  write  a  leafy,  shadowy  book; 
A  book  so  quiet,  clear,  and  cool 
The  words  will  rest  you  like  a  pool. 
And  thirsty  folk,  who  need  a  drink, 
Will  come  and  buy  that  book — I  think. 

Some  day  when  I  am  very  rich, 

I'll  hire  a  private,  grass  grown  ditch, 

With  silver  maples  bending  over 

A  secret  amplitude  of  clover, 

And  just  a  bit  of  blue  mud,  so 

Blue  butterflies  can  come  and  go. 

.  .  .     Over  and  under  and  round  and  together, 

Lazy  as  thoughts  in  lazy  weather: 

And  into  my  mind,  sweet  word  on  word 

Will  flutter  and  stir  there;    gracious,  absurd; 

Quaintly  beautiful,  stately,  gay; 

And  after  a  little  while  fly  away. 

And  I  shall  not  hold  them,  shall  not  care, 

Simply  be  glad  that  they  once  were  there. 

...     I  shan't  be  even  sorry,  I  think, 

I  killed  them  Monday  last  with  ink. 

When  I've  done  all  the  work  I  should, 

I'll  buy  a  thick  and  tangled  wood, 

And  lie  behind  a  thorn  and  peer 

At  the  travellers  on  the  highroad  near; 

43 


But  I'll  have  my  ears  stuffed  up  with  cotton 

So's  not  to  hear  their  talk  besotten. 

And  if  perchance  they  trespass  there, 

Fll  lose  them;    I'll  have  everywhere 

Signs  to  guide  them  wrong;    one  item, 

A  gentle  bear  I  know  to  bite  'em. 

Never  a  sound,  but  like  a  tune 

Will  come  the  damp  cool  smell  of  June, 

Come  from  hidden  hollows  where 

Primrose  grows  with  maidenhair, 

And  all  the  afternoon  of  glades 

Is  misty  with  sunlight  and  cascades. 

Out  of  the  ultimate  heart  of  trees 

I'll  get  me  quiet  and  dreams  and  ease. 

.  .  .     Quiet?     They  say  the  best  of  quiet 
Is  found  in  heaven —     Some  day  I'll  try  it. 


44 


Friend  of  Mine 

FRIEND  of  Mine,  come  back  again, 
Now  the  spring  is  soft  with  rain; 
Rain  that  walks  with  shining  feet 
Up  the  shadowy,  lamp-lit  street. 
See,  in  every  pool  the  showers 
Widen  into  water-flowers; 
And  the  skirts  of  night  are  wet 
With  hyacinth  and  mignonette. 
Friend  of  Mine,  come  back  again, 
Here's  the  spring  once  more;    and  rain. 


45 


Silver  Feet 

(To  N.  B.;    set.  6) 

ALL  because  of  silver  feet,  slippers  shod  with  light 

and  dew, 
Somewhere  on  the  highroad    there's    a    spring  for 

you; 
Such    a    clear    and    shining    pool,    maples    bending 

over, 
With  a  blackbird  lately  come  from  a  field  of  clover. 

Silver  feet,  roaming  feet,  feet  forever  skimming, 

You  will  rest  at  noon  beside  the  cool  water  brim 
ming; 

Cup  your  hands  to  drink  it  with;  in  the  mirror 
deep 

Watch  your  eyes  grow  round  and  rounder  till  you 
fall  asleep. 

Rain  will  wake  you  up  at  four,  gentle  and  persis 
tent, 

Make  the  hills  you're  travelling  to,  misty-far  and 
distant; 

Never  mind,  the  road's  the  thing,  that,  and  silver 
shoon, 

Midday  with  a  waiting  spring;  evening  with  the 
moon. 


46 


Night  is  the  Time! 

NIGHT  is  the  time!     Look  out  and  see; 
Out  of  your  window  is  mystery. 

Lean  far  out,  and  leaning  far, 

Look  down  at  the  earth  and  up  at  a  star. 

There  is  no  earth,  for  in  between 
Sways  a  shadow  deep  and  green; 

And  this  makes  all  the  odder  still, 

The  bark  of  a  dog  on  a  neighboring  hill; 

The  sound  of  footsteps  coming  near; 
The  talk  of  two  lovers,  soft  and  clear: 

Someone  whistles;    someone  calls; 
Somehow  utter  silence  falls: 

Until,  far  off,  a  voice  once  more, 
And  unseen  laughter  passes  your  door. 

That  is  the  lovely  thing  about  night, 

You  see  without  hearing,  and  hear  without  sight. 

For  if  you  turn  your  head  to  the  sky, 
Quite  unheard  the  crowd  goes  by: 

Never  a  sound  from  the  rustling  wind; 

And  the  close  warm  mystery  leaves  your  mind; 

Quiet  and  far  and  very  bright, 
The  unheard  star  fills  all  the  night. 

47 


Desert  Hours 

THERE  comes  at  times  by  pallid  noon  a  breeze, 

And  in  the  eager  moment  following  after, 

A  sudden  scent  of  far  off  pines  that  dream, 

Blue-shadowed  by  a  secret  mountain  stream, 

Above  sun-places  shaken  with  luminous  laughter: 

Or  in  the  hot-lipped  canon  we  descend, 

So  hid  and  rapturous  our  caught  breath's  a  prayer, 

Finding  lost  azure  unaware, 

Is  lupin,  under  firs  that  bend 

Curved  to  a  windless  south.  .  .  . 

These  only,  and  the  heat  and  dust; 

Heat,  dust,  mirage,  slow  plodding  hoofs. 

Mirage  and  dust  and  toil;   yet,  soon; 

Hours  that  never  end;    yet  very  soon, 

Dusk  stirs  the  afternoon, 

And  sweeps  on  purple  wings  towards  the  dark — 

And  hark! 

Here  sings  an  unexpected  lark ! 

Sings  once !     Sings  once  again  ! 

Cool,  cool !    O  silver  throated  rain  ! 


48 


Lullaby  to  be  Sung  to  Mothers 

IF  I  had  my  way,  as  way  I  should, 
You'd  live  in  a  house  of  polished  wood; 
Rugs  on  the  floor,  and  color  on  the  wall 
And  a  scent  of  rosemary  over  all. 

You'd  sleep  in  a  bed  of  eiderdown 
Men  would  come  for  to  see  from  the  town, 
While  women  would  stare  and  jealous  grow 
At  sheet  and  counterpane  smooth  as  snow. 

And  O  you  would  sleep  so  well,  my  dear; 
Long  as  the  hours,  and  as  soft,  and  as  clear, 
As  stars  that  hang  in  a  velvet  night 
To  make  for  you  a  candle  light. 

Never  a  care,  nor  'bothersome  stuff/ 
Save  perhaps  if  the  grass  had  dew  enough, 
Or  perhaps  if  the  flowers  were  tended  by  the  bee 
And  the  house  was  furnished  with  rosemary. 

Prettily,  properly,  silver-white 
As  the  new  half-moon  on  a  young  June  night, 
Your  hair  would  turn,  but  your  heart  still  run 
Like  a  child's  first  laughter  when  the  day's  begun. 

Never  a  care  ?     Ah  well,  let's  see ! 

There'd  be  always  your  son,  O  mother  of  me. 


49 


The  Pursuit 

DOWN  the  road 

Between  the  trees, 

In  the  new-moon  time  of  May, 

Lighter  than  the  small  light  breeze, 

Whiter  than  anemonies, 

Whiter  than  shy  waterfalls 

Where  in  summer  white  moths  stir, 

Slim,  and  clad  in  mysteries, 

Was  the  dim  far  shape  of  her. 

Music  seemed 
To  underlie 

All  the  sudden  startled  night; 
Music  which,  so  faint  and  high, 
Here  and  distant,  passing  by, 
Halts  the  lonely  traveller 
When  at  evening  he  has  strayed 
Near  some  sylphic  revelry 
In  a  hidden  forest  glade. 

Music  faint, 
And  sweeter  far 
Than  the  honey-noted  flute, 
In  a  place  where  viols  are, 
Where  long  windows  make  a  bar, 
Yellow,  dancing  in  the  night; 
And  the  cypress  shadows  mark, 
And  a  pool  that  holds  a  star, 
Some  enclosed  and  secret  park. 


Blossoms  pale 

With  moon  and  spring 

Lapped  the  forest  edge  about, 

And  there  went  a  magic  thing, 

Not  a  breeze,  but  whispering, 

Through  the  patterned  aisles  and  vales; 

Through  the  meadows  where  the  grass, 

Bright  with  daisies  in  a  ring, 

Did  not  stir  to  let  her  pass. 

Surely  where 

Her  feet  had  gone 

There  would  be  a  silvery  trace: 

Surely  when  the  moon  was  high 

She  would  turn  and  show  her  face: 

Surely  by  some  cryptic  stream 

She  would  pause  and  rest  awhile, 

Till  the  water  troubled  be 

With  her  hid  unknown  smile. 

Swifter  than 

The  night-jar  flings 

His  small  body  to  the  moon; 

Swifter  than  the  gossamer  wings 

That  the  dusk  of  August  brings 

Over  water-lilied  pools; 

Swift,  O  swiftly  down  the  hill, 

Up  where  tangled  grape-vine  swings, 

Sped  her  going;    speeds  it  still. 

No  pursuing 
Feet  can  win 
Si 


Ever  a  glimpse  of  her  shy  brow; 
Lost  the  hidden  forest  in, 
Trapped  as  if  with  delicate  gin, 
Sore  perplexed  the  hunter  bides; 
Till  the  stars  begin  to  fade; 
Till  the  dawn,  where  she  had  been, 
Finds  him  lonely  and  afraid. 


Morning 

MIST  along  the  water  willows,  stealing,  feeling ! 

.  .  .     A  drowsy  bird;    silence;    then  blowing, 

His  thin  small  silver  trumpet  on  the  air, 

A  cock,  loud  crowing ! 

O  unknown  whisper  down  the  trees; 

Dawn  wind;    the  white  dawn  breeze; 

Or  night  wind  going ! 

Rising,  growing, 

Dying ! 

Again  the  cool  gray  silence  and  the  cool 

Fragrance  of  reeds  from  green  enfringed  pool. 

An  emerald  light  touches  the  hills, 

And  slowly,  up,  and  eastward  fills 

The  sky  with  crimson: 

Slowly  .  .  .  till  .  .  .  there,  where  spired  pines  are 

blue; 

Here  where  the  moss  is  wet  with  dew; 
One  edge  of  a  yellow  sun  looks  through ! 

At  a  distance  are  heard  the  pipes  of  a  faun: 
"Cool  and  sweet!     Cool  and  sweet!     Meadow 

and  hill  my  flute  notes  greet ! 
Sweet  and  cool,  sweet  and  cool,  water  dripping 

in  amber  pool!" 

Suddenly  the  pellucid  silence  awakes  to  sound: 
Twigs  snap,  insects  hum,  a  meadow-lark  sings; 
From  the  depths  of  the  woods  comes  the  liquid 

chanting  of  a  thrush: 
The  sound  of  water  is  audible. 
53 


Faun  pipes  (drowsily): 

"Dew  is  wet,  dew  is  wet,  on  lace  of  fern  and 

spider's  net; 
Water  sings,  water  sings,   and  the  ousel  dips 

her  wet  gray  wings  !" 

O  sun,  after  the  little  death  of  sleep, 
And,  all  forgot,  the  finished  gift  of  dreams, 
Once  more  to  see  thy  quivering  radiance  leap 
Across  the  misty  mountains,  and  the  streams 
Burning  once  more  their  cataracts  to  light !  .  .  . 

Faun  pipes  (sleepily): 

"Drowsy   sweet,   drowsy   sweet;    the    light    is 

warm  on  flower  and  wheat: 
Cool  the  shade,  cool  the  shade,  and  deep,  deep 

green  the  forest  glade  ! " 


54 


Ill 


The  Reformer 

I  DO  not  know  what  keenness  and  delight, 

What  little  moons,  and  stars,  what  summer  night 

Have  passed  you  by,  and  going,  left  unheard 

Silence  and  music  and  the  drowsy  bird. 

Is  there  no  thrill,  no  meagre  thrill  at  all, 

In  April,  when  the  bland  young  evenings  fall; 

And  evening  and  the  dusk  and  lighted  street 

Soften  and  yellow  and  expand  and  meet? 

There  is  a  great  wide  highway  where  in  spring 

Shop  window,  pavement,  warm  wet  asphalt  sing 

With  whispering  romances  after  dark.  .  .  . 

And  have  you  heard  girls'  laughter  in  the  park? 

I  know — !     You  see  beneath  to  tears  and  lust: 

O  poor  blind  prophet  of  the  sterile  dust ! 

Here  is  the  fruitful  earth,  and  rain,  and  sun; 

And  old  things  dead,  and  new  begun; 

And  death  is  a  beginning,  and  the  soil 

Is  diligent  with  death  and  blood  and  toil; 

And  laughter,  and  good  wine,  and  children's  voices, 

And  quiet  age  that  sees  the  end  of  choices, 

Bad,  fine,  indifferent;    all  forgot, 

Now  that  the  pulse  is  cool,  no  longer  hot, 

Where  old  folk  sit  and  watch  the  western  skies 

With  patient,  waiting,  gravely  humorous  eyes. 

Here's  fabric  too;    color  without  and  in; 

And  yet  you  see  them  both  an  ultimate  sin. 

Texture  and  hue  of  comely  wife  and  maid 

Poor  love,  drab,  sordid,  dirty,  all  afraid  ! 

While  there  beyond  your  dullness  and  your  fear 

Is  all  the  loveliness  of  lip  and  ear, 

57 


And  smooth  white  skin,  and  flowing  lines  that  talk 
Like  rhythmed  music  in  the  gracious  walk. 
Have  you  no  sense  of  love's  great  plenitude: 
Largesse  for  every  moment  and  each  mood? 
Your  dreary  women  answer  all  I  ask; 
Slaves  of  the  cradle,  unsought  bed,  and  task. 
And  wine!    that  ruddy  gift  of  autumn  hills; 
When  every  land  with  dancing  sunshine  fills, 
And  up  and  down  the  valleys  in  the  wheat 
The  flutes  of  old  half  slumbering  gods  are  sweet ! 
Blood  of  the  earth,  and  secret  of  earth's  veins; 
Mixture  of  sun  and  cobwebbed  dawns  and  rains ! 
O  little  man,  when  once  you  come  to  die, 
And  stand  bemused  and  shaken  by  the  sky, 
How  will  you  bear  the  laughter  on  your  head 
Of  all  the  great,  full  bodied,  splendid  dead? 


To  a  Friend  Recently  Married 

JOHNNY  O'MAY;    Johnny  O'May, 
What  did  you  say  to  her?      What  did  you  say? 
"I  told  her  my  heart  was  as  big  as  the  moon." 
Why,  Johnny !    it's  naught  but  a  golden  doubloon  ! 

Johnny  O'May,  Johnny  O'May, 

How  did  you  win  her,  this  girl  like  a  spray 

Caught    from    a    hedge    when    the    hawthorn's    in 

bloom 
"I  swore  that  I'd  live  like  a  new  garnished  room." 

Johnny  O'May;    John  of  the  May, 
It's  time  you  were  down  on  your  knees  for  to  pray: 
They'll  dance  to  the  dawn  before  they  are  wed, 
But   John,  when  they're  married,  what's   said   to 
them's  said. 

Johnny  O'May;    Johnny  O'May 
Now  you've  the  brown  eyes,  what  of  the  gray? 
No  more  will  you  pipe  the  stars  out  of  the  sky: 
Well  .  .  .  maybe  you'll  climb  to  them,  John,  by 
and  by. 


59 


K.  N.  B. 

THIS  is  a  great  gift, 

So  keen,  so  swift, 

The  gift  that  is  yours  of  the  heart  of  a  boy: 

Fluid  and  leaping,  crystal  clear, 

Song  of  a  bird;    a  flute  note  near; 

With  the  lift  of  it,  laugh  of  it,  lilt  of  it,  joy, 

The  eager  heart  that  is  yours  of  a  boy. 

Ah,  it  is  brave,  that  eager  heart  you  have; 
Here's  the  savour  of  springtime  sure; 
With  all  the  light  of  the  break  of  the  day  in  it, 
And  all  the  thrust  of  a  sea  wind  gay  in  it, 
Over  the  blue-white  noon  of  a  moor. 

Sail  will  we  on  to  the  march  of  the  waters; 
Climb  will  we  up  where  the  world  thins  out; 
Aye,  and  run  will  we  down  the  heather, 
Through  life's  long  fields  in  rainy  weather, 
With  a  great  wind  blowing  our  hearts  about. 


60 


Mr.  Latimer 

I  THINK  it's  fine  to  be  so  rich 
That  one  can  be  eternally  rude, 
Whenever  one  is  out  of  sorts; 
In  other  words,  to  buy  one's  mood. 

I  think  it's  righteous,  your  contempt, 
Patrician,  delicate,  always  true, 
For  people  who  wear  shabby  clothes, 
Have  shabby  homes;    don't  eat  like  you. 

Of  course  it's  obvious  anyone 

Can  have  green  lawns;    you  subtly  guess 

To  live  in  dingy  houses  is 

A  sign  of  spiritual  carelessness. 

A  secret  nastiness  resides 
In  those  whose  women  are  unkempt; 
Women  are  sleek,  and  white,  and  jewels 
Were  fashioned  for  their  ornament. 

But  there's  one  danger  always  in 
The  journeys  of  the  self-sufficed; 
Suppose  one  night  you  lose  your  way 
And  in  a  stable  sneer  at  Christ? 


61 


Now  you  are  dead,  so  much  apart,  so  dead, 
I  find  I  cannot  think  of  all  you  were; 
The  glamour  of  your  eyes,  nor  how  the  stir 
Was  ever  near  of  wings  your  lifted  head: 
So !    and  the  room  you  entered  in 
Became  a  place  of  stars  instead ! 

Your  fame,  your  words,  I  half  forget;    I  spill 
All  of  my  heart  in  little  things  it  seems: 
I  share  with  half  a  world  your  singing  dreams 
But  you;    ah  you,  I  cannot  share  until, 
Some  sudden  foolish  memory  takes  my  heart, 
Bidding  it  leap  and  falter  and  lie  still. 


62 


And  Adah  Bare  Jabal: 

He  was  the  father  of  such  as  dwell 
in  tents,  and  of  such  as  have  cattle. 
(To  D.N.) 

LORD,  I  give  thanks  for  myriad  gifts 

That  I  have  tasted,  touched,  and  seen; 

Spring,  when  with  delicate  shy  steps 

It  treads  a  valley,  and  the  green 

Of  quivering  aspen  trees  is  laughter 

Of  leaves  above  the  loosed  streams  after. 

Thanks  for  young  grass,  when  blade  on  blade, 

Tender  for  cattle  being  made. 

.  .  .     Lord,  it's  a  goodly  sight 

To  watch  the  big  herds  graze  by  night. 

And  when  the  summer  comes  amain, 
The  swift,  the  cool,  the  occasional  rain ! 
And  all  those  breathless  moments  when 
Your  wings  are  very  close  to  men ! 
How  often  do  I  watch  where  speaks 
The  thunder  to  the  listening  peaks; 
Shoulder  to  shoulder,  watch  them  raise 
Their  giant  heads;    in  those  hot  days, 
When  I  have  borne  the  drought  of  sorrow, 
Came,  well  I  knew,  a  green  to-morrow. 

Lord,  in  the  valley,  after  rain, 

Do  you  recall  that  smell  of  grain?  .  .  . 

I  even  thank  you  for  the  snow; 
The  winter  nights  I  rode,  for  so 
63 


I  grew  more  close  to  frost  and  stars, 
And  when,  beyond  my  pasture  bars, 
I  came  to  where  the  cattle  lay, 
I  learned  the  precious  gift  of  hay: 
All  humble,  all  unconscious  things; 
How  tenderness  like  beauty  stings. 
I  understood  why  you  should  be 
Reborn  with  beasts  for  company. 

And  after,  when  a  lamp  was  lit; 

And  after,  when  a  fire  was  warm; 

I  knew  why  men  should  suffer  cold; 

I  knew  why  men  should  suffer  storm; 

I  even  knew  why  death  is  here, 

Since  death  makes  life  more  close  and  dear; 

And  how,  when  death  at  length  betideth, 

Death  is  but  warmth  that  long  abideth. 

I  would  not  miss  one  wound,  O  Lord, 

Made  with  your  clean,  stern,  merciful  sword, 

.  .  .     O  Lord,  you  mind  that  day  last  Fall 
We  heard  the  great  elk  bugles  call? 


The  Ouija  Player 

POOR  faded,  fat,  bemused  idealist, 

Eager  for  lips  long  dead  you  once  have  kissed, 

You  think  that  heaven  at  last  you've  really  caught 

Within  this  varnished  square  so  newly  bought? 

You  think  the  shining  dead  can  be  detained 

By  anxious  flabby  muscles,  over-strained? 

Ah  no;    if  death  is  anything  but  death, 

Cease  troubling,  save  your  eyes,  your  questioning 

breath; 

Save  them  for  life,  that  in  the  end  you  be 
For  all  the  sensible  dead  fit  company. 


Uncle  Jim 

UNCLE  JIM  with  snow  clad  peak 
Played  a  life-long  hide  and  seek; 
Dug  in  every  rocky  fold 
For  a  trace  of  hidden  gold; 
Sometimes,  very  seldom,  'struck,' 
Usually  'was  out  of  luck'; 
But,  meanwhile,  the  hills  and  he 
Came  to  a  marvelous  harmony. 

Every  spring  with  pack  and  pick, 
Bag  of  flour,  blanket  thick, 
And  a  large  tobacco  can 
Just  as  comfort  for  a  man, 
He  would  take  the  higher  trails 
With  the  soft  May-laden  gales. 
Birds  were  singing  as  he  went; 
Brooks  were  white  and  turbulent. 

In  the  mountain  meadows  where 
He  would  pitch  his  camp,  the  air 
Bore  a  resinous  warm  scent; 
Juniper  with  grasses  blent; 
And  his  waking  eye  could  see 
Ranges  like  eternity. 
Golden  stars  for  supper  mates: 
That  is  not  the  worst  of  fates. 

Nor  the  worst  of  fates  to  die 
Quietly  beneath  the  sky; 
August,  and  your  tools  and  bars 
66 


Laid  in  order  like  the  stars; 
Handy  every  pick  and  pan, 
Handy  for  a  mining  man, 
When  'the  great  analysist' 
Shall  each  'sample'  weigh  and  list. 

Uncle  Jim,  I  know  you  hold 

Now  the  very  crock  of  gold 

In  your  hands,  while  at  your  knee 

Angels  listen  breathlessly: 

How  you  found  at  Coeur  d'Alene 

That  big  'pesky'  triple  vein: 

How  that  August  night  you  dreamed 

Thunder  Mountain  yellow  gleamed. 


Mr.  Smithers 

MR.  SMITHERS  wears  a  ring, 

A  heavy,  brilliant,  ruby  thing; 

And  Mr.  Smithers'  hands  are  white, 

So  that  the  nails  reflect  the  light; 

The  four-worlds  bring,  in  fact,  their  booty 

To  add  to  Smithers'  well-kept  beauty. 

Once,  when  we  were  having  tea, 
Mr.  Smithers  talked  to  me; 
On  a  terrace,  velvet  sod, 
Under  a  sky  that  spoke  of  God; 
Just  before  the  wandering  light 
Sowed  the  poppies  of  the  night. 

From  a  horizon  heather  blue, 
High,  heart  stirring,  called  to  you 
Distant  hills  and  in  between, 
Sloping  fields  stretched  tender  green; 
One  could  almost  see  the  day 
Open  wide  its  arms  and  pray. 

Mr.  Smithers  thoughtfully 
Lit  a  cigar  and  talked  to  me. 

"All  this  rot,"  said  Mr.  Smithers, 
"Blows  to  dust  and  quickly  withers 
With  a  breath  of  commonsense; 
I  mean  this  brotherly  pretence. 
If  a  man's  a  man,  then — well — 
He'll  make  his  'pile'  in  spite  of  hell. 
68 


Don't,  of  course,  misunderstand  me; 

I  pay  out  checks  when  they  command  me: 

For  any  worthy  cause  or  reason 

My  purse  is  wide  at  every  season. 

Charity  becomes  'the  classes'; 

As  for  'the  masses' — well — they're  'masses.' 

You  know,  my  boy,  as  well  as  I 
That  all  a  man  need  do  is  try; 
The  world  has  never  had  enough 
Of  the  right  kind  of  mental  stuff: 
Instead  of  milk  and  water  cooing, 
We  need  more  blood  and  iron  doing. 

(Mr.  Smithers'  hands  are  quite, 

I  think  I  said,  large,  soft,  and  white.) 

Cent  for  cent  the  world  rewards 
The  valiant  heart,  the  trusty  swords; 
Look — I  ask  you  modestly — 
Look  at  my  friends,  and — well,  at  me! 
Talk  of  Rome?     Well,  now,  our  story 
Reflects,  I  think,  an  equal  glory. 

(An  ancient  Smithers,  so  I'm  told, 
Made  from  soap  the  Smithers'  gold.) 

But  what  could  I  do,  when  he  talked  to  me, 

Save  drink  the  younger  Smithers'  tea? 

Smile,  and  nod,  and  watch  the  dark 

Creep  across  the  elm-sweet  park; 

And  wonder  why,  with  lavish  hand, 

God  gives  to  each  the  springtime  land. 

69 


Gives  to  each  man  the  stars  and  night; 
The  yellow  dawn,  the  tremulous  light; 
The  little  flowers,  all  gold  and  free; 
The  great  thunder;    the  straight  tree; 
The  whole  round  world,  when  it  by  right 
Belonged  to  Smithers,  large  and  white. 

And,  though  no  doubt  a  stupid  sign, 
I  thought  of  ancient  friends  of  mine; 
Of  camp  fires,  where  the  ruddy  dome 
Makes  the  whispering  night  a  home; 
Of  bearded  farmer  men;    and  great 
Glad  souls  that  swarm  the  slopes  of  Fate. 

There  was  a  boy — Richard  Grael 

We'll  call  him — slim,  lithe,  golden  pale, 

Whose  heart  was  tears,  quick  smiles,  hot  strife, 

So  much  it  was  a  harp  of  life; 

He  died  half  starved;    but  now  he's  dead, 

His  verse  is  very  widely  read. 

And  there  was,  grizzled,  bent  and  dumb, 
That  old  Swiss  gardener,  Carlos  Strumm. 
Or  was  it  Strumm  ?  — I've  half  forgot, 
All  save  his  passion  and  the  hot 
Fine  love  of  him  for  all  that  grew, 
Swam,  budded,  fluttered,  sapped  or  flew. 

An  ignorant  fellow;    slow  of  speech; 

But  he  could  teach ! — Man,  he  could  teach ! 

While  out  across  the  wide  gray  plains, 
In  desert  dust,  or  mountain  rains, 
70 


Thin  flanked,  high  booted,  tight  of  lip, 

With  a  swing  like  a  verse  to  the  turn  of  a  hip, 

Are  all  the  silent,  hawkeyed  crew 

Of  the  men  I  knew — the  men  I  knew! 

(.  .  .     Mr.  Smithers'  recompense 
Never  reached  them — not  in  cents.) 

"Lucky"  Sharpe,  I  saw  him  fling, 

Where  great  white  waters  whimper  and  swing, 

His  horse  head  first  and,  swimming,  free 

A  small  black  dog  from  a  drowning  tree: 

A  small  black  dog  who  never  whined, 

For  his  men,  he  knew,  were  ready  and  kind. 

Or  take  a  rope,  so  harmless  seeming, 
One  finds  in  a  moment  the  devil  teeming 
With  death,  bite,  sear  and  burn; 
"Shorty"  slipped  his  fist  in  a  turn 
And  saved  a  leg,  but  a  stump  hand  wears: 
From  the  same,  the  Smithers'  ruby  stares. 

As  I  have  said,  the  dusk  was  near; 

The  black  far  hills  grew  sharp  and  clear; 

A  robin  sang;    the  locust  trees 

Were  sweeter  than  the  evening  breeze; 

While  from  a  neighboring  hidden  wood, 

The  ignorant  frogs  sang:   "Good!    Good!    Good!" 

Mr.  Smithers  thoughtfully 
Flung  his  cigar  at  a  lilac  tree. 


Advice  to  a  Modern  Puritan 

JONATHAN  EDWARDS,  wonderful  man, 
Had  an  extremely  workable  plan; 
Seventy  years  or  so  of  life, 
Seventy  years  of  church  and  wife, 
Seventy  years  without  much  laughter, 
But  oh  the  joys  of  the  life  hereafter ! 
Jonathan  Edwards'  recompense 
Was  a  highly  ethereal  Bacchic  sense. 

Jonathan  Edwards  thought  of  heaven 
As  a  place  where  decorous  folk  get  even: 
Lyres  and  harps  and  fiddlers  many, 
Merry-go-rounds  and  chuck-a-penny, 
Pasty  pies  of  every  sort, 
And,  after  each  slice,  a  glass  of  port; 
Served  where  you  sit  on  a  roseate  cloud 
Telling  jokes  in  a  voice  loud. 

Space  was  a  golden  bowling  alley; 
Young  archangels  kept  the  tally; 
Shining  worlds  were  the  distant  pins, 
Planets  and  comets  bumped  your  shins, 
And  you  used  a  rounded  star  as  a  ball, 
And  watched  it  tumble  and  roll  and  fall. 
In  short,  the  Jonathan  Edwards  plan 
Demanded  a  large  two-legged  man. 

Jonathan  Edwards  never  meant 

That  life  and  death  should  both  be  spent 

Thinly,  whitely,  undecided; 

72 


Shrinkingly,  wearily,  all  divided: 
Heaven  he  knew  remarkably  well, 
And  he  also  had  his  respect  for  hell. 
Jonathan  Edwards,  great  and  spleenic, 
Was  certainly  never  a  neurasthenic. 


73 


J.  G.  H. :  President 

A  GREAT  love  makes  a  great  man, 
And  a  great  man  has  a  great  love; 
And  I  think  there  has  never  been  a  lover 
Greater  than  you  of  the  place  you  serve. 

Princeton. 


74 


Primavera 

(To  My  Daughter  upon  Reacmng  Four) 

THE  time  is  April,  and  a  cloud, 
Round  as  a  little  puff  of  song, 
Sails  in  a  sky  of  palest  blue, 
Sped  by  an  urchin  wind  along. 

While  down  the  viridescent  slope, 
The  silly  lambs,  with  wrinkled  faces, 
Dance  like  a  band  of  young  white  stars 
In  green,  horizon,  twilight  spaces. 

An  unkempt  meadow,  half  awake, 
Wears  as  a  crown  a  daisied  ring: 
Some  tiny  Pan  has  found  her  out, 
While  she,  the  sloth,  was  slumbering. 

We  cannot  trace  the  piping  yet, 
The  odd  fresh  piping  over  the  hill, 
But  if  we  walk  till  dusk,  I  think 
That,  hand  in  hand,  we  will. 


75 


The  Good  Dean:  Humanist 
(A.  F.  W.) 

MEN  grow  like  buildings. 
And  like  buildings,  men 

Take  on  the  color  of  sky  and  earth  and  grass; 
And  books  within,   and  pictures,  and   rich  glass; 
And,  here,  a  dream  upstanding,  so  we  mark 
A  tower  that  catches  heaven  like  a  lark. 

Dreams  are  a  splendour  when  they  break 
In  blossom  as  a  valley  shaken  with  May; 
And  dreams  are  warming  when  they  keep 
The  man  who  dreams  as  young  as  yesterday. 

^  outh  wrote  the  language  of  the  world. 
Aye,  even  if  poets  reach  seventy-seven, 
And  all  the  books,  and  all  the  songs: 
The  earth  is  young,  and  so  is  heaven. 

And  some  quaint  childish  mind  first  wondered 
What  stars  were,  and  why  one  was  one, 
And  two  made  two.  and  why  it  thundered; 
And  why  the  riddle  was  begun. 

Men  grow  like  buildings. 

And  like  buildings,  men 

Are   meagre   and    cold;    or   mellow    and    filled   with 

shade 

Of  courtyards  where  new  trees  grow  unafraid; 
Of  cloisters,  where  youth  ponders  to  be  wise, 
And  wisdom  walks  with  eager,  amiable  eyes. 

76 


Brown  Men 


ON  sultry  days  by  river  front, 
Behind  the  forest  of  the  slips, 
The  world  is  hea\y  with  Malay 
And  the  redolence  of  ships; 
And  in  the  darkened  parlor-bar, 
Sun-browned  men  and  hairy  are, 
Who  tell  in  voices  windlass  clear 
Strange  tales  of  the  sea. 

While  out,  and  out,  where  stars  hang  low 

And  mountain  winds  forever  walk, 

Beside  a  little  fire's  glow 

Brown  men  sit  and  talk: 

And  O,  their  talk  is  very  fine, 

Slow  and  acid  and  heady  wine; 

And  the  tang  reaches  me. 

Caithness,  Cadiz,  Frisco  Bay, 
Yokohama,  Far  Cathay; 
Saigon,  Singapore,  Bombay, 
Port  au  Prince  and  Mandalay: — 
Selkirks,  Tetons,  Mogollons, 
Sierra  Madres  and  Shoshone*; 
Pend  d'Oreille,  Lost  River,  Nome, 
Painted  Deserts — and  back  home ! 

Trade  winds  blowing  down  the  blue, 
'Chinooks'  coming  up  the  gale; 
Barks  at  anchor,  two  by  two, 
Cattle  feeding  in  the  swale; 
77 


Stamp  ar.d  rattle  of  the  blocks, 
Surf  awash  on  silver  rocks: 
And  brown  men,  with  eagle  faces, 
At  their  old  ways  in  the  old  places ! 


YB  73259 


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